I wore this male chastity device for a fortnight so you don’t have to

Man, I love fondling my penis. As is well-documented on these very pages. Other people fondling my penis is great too, since you ask, but that’s another story.

Yet even such a committed onanist as I must occasionally ponder whether it’s actually a force for good or ill in my life.

Could it be that squandering my seed, as all those joyless little NoFap weirdos insist on framing it, somehow diminishes my potential as a man? And what if there’s a way to lay off the dolphin-flogging that doesn’t require willpower? When an opportunity arose to try a male chastity device for a bit, curiosity got the better of me – and before I knew where I was, I was signing the Yodel geezer’s little PDA to accept delivery of my shiny new wang guard.

What can I say: it was Dry January and self-flagellation was all the rage. Anyway, here’s what we’re dealing with: Plastic alternatives are available too, if you’re a puny wimp who doesn’t take genital self-mutilation seriously; a sad little weasel unwilling – or, let’s face it, unable – to put in the hard miles on the highway to self-denial. In case you’re here for a handy how-to: unlock it, separate the parts, pop your nads through the scrotal ring, slide the shaft bit around your dong, secure it, then clasp the padlock back on. But always read the instructions first. Sadly I’m not allowed to model it for you (curse those Metro prudes), so this requires a little imagination on your part.

My penis looked… pathetic. Defeated, somehow. Like a hunchbacked, medieval serf – head bowed, clapped in irons for stealing one of his Lordship’s chickens. I gave my wife the key, not because she’s a sexy dominatrix, but because she’s a trustworthy grownup who always knows where important household items are stored. She was all in favour, by the way, and I suspect rather looked forward to a spell of peaceful weekend lie-ins. Indeed, when I jokingly suggested she swallow (the key), the love of my life put her headphones on and pretended I wasn’t there.

That first evening I wore my magical chastity device mooching around the house, as a normal person might when breaking in a new pair of brogues. The extra weight takes a lot of getting used to. It’s actually uncomfortable and weeing through the gaps in a metal cage while sitting down feels so… barbaric. Nope (Picture: Getty) In the interests of journalism I read around the topic and discovered broad consensus within the male chastity community (oh, it exists) that overnight is the trickiest time, because you can’t help your raging nocturnal boners.

A kindly soul on Reddit advised I slather up with baby oil before beddybyes and be ready for a rude awakening. How right he was. About 5am, having carefully arranged the pillows so I stayed on my back, the inevitable surging erection made itself known. The device was already pretty tight around my member, even when flaccid (cos I’m such a giant stud), but now my luckless schlong was doing its morning stretches, for the first time ever, under lock and key.

Again, Metro would probably take a dim view of me sharing a photo. So imagine a lonely little bearcub in some sketchy foreign zoo, pathetically squishing its hairless, malnourished flanks against the bars of a teeny-tiny cage. Tragic, really. But the pain rapidly forced my dick into retreat, so the problem went away. I guess that’s a win? MORE: SEX These are the sex trends you can look forward to Sex doll maker helps grieving men by recreating dead wives in silicone Male contraceptive gel could soon become a reality I had a couple of meetings to attend the next day, and so was forced to brave the outside world.

I had zero qualms about my inevitable massive pants bulge. If some foxy lady on the Tube happened to glance at my crotch and marvel at my blessed package then so much the better. But again, the weight thing. It’s just not enjoyable. Also, pro–tip: wear the tightest underwear possible. Anything loose and the little padlock flops around when you walk, making you sound like the Tin Man. At my meetings I must say I felt a little racy wearing it – naughty, like I had a dirty secret that could be exposed at any moment. But again, the pissing thing.

In a singularly unlovely south London public toilet I retreated to a stall – the urinal was hardly an option – and sat down. Without doubt, the clang of my dong-trap on the porcelain made the queue outside think I’d dropped my heroin spoon. Honestly, that probably would have been less embarrassing. As the days wore on I grew accustomed to the discomfort. I stopped wearing it 24/7, because even the pros don’t do that. Plus – to be blunt – there’s a whole pre-cum-leakage-stench issue that gets quite unmanageable around day three.

Have a read here on how ycan male chastity transformed your marriage

Popping it off overnight meant I could rinse it under the tap and leave it in a tupperware by the bedside, sort of like wearing a brace. This, but for cock (Picture: Getty) The more time I spent with it, the more I found myself obsessing over who it’s actually designed for. Not whimsical journos, that’s for sure. Cheating spouse is an obvious one. I have a mate who has serious issues keeping it in his pants – he claimed to love the idea, until I sent him a picture of my dick inside one. A rather sweet target market that never occurred to me until someone online suggested it, is men who ejaculate too quickly.

Which is basically all men, by the way. The idea is you wear the device and thoroughly take care of the missus. Then, and only then, do you get unlocked. I actually tried that with the wife, but sadly in my excitement I started clanking, which apparently was ‘like being eaten out by C-3PO.’ Nosing around the chastity community, it seems ‘control’ is the main motivation. Some people love a bit of discomfort in their sexual routine. As a potential aid to curtailing daytime masturbation it’s pointless. Half the reason I jack-off is to shut out the horny thoughts, not draw attention to them.

Weirdly though, I do miss my little private pee-pee prison. This must be what Stockholm Syndrome feels like. Well, cock-holm syndrome, anyway.